


Pinch Me

by Wolftraps (AlwaysBoth)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dream Sex, M/M, Minor Character Death, Possession, Rough Sex, and then not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-22
Updated: 2014-06-22
Packaged: 2018-02-05 18:56:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1828693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysBoth/pseuds/Wolftraps
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn't work. When the nogitsune crumbles to ash, he's weakened,  but he's right back in Stiles head with his damn riddles. And Stiles feels like he's not just losing control, but also losing himself.</p><p>But no one can lose their shadow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pinch Me

**Author's Note:**

> Canon divergent from the moment they defeat the nogitsune. Based on [this idea](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com/post/76775205480/).

Stiles dreams. He doesn't really want to, dreams haven't been good to him lately, but he doesn't have much of a choice when someone, some _thing,_ else is in control of his body, and he's been forced into this dark place at the back of his mind.

He dreams of his mom, his dad, of things he barely remembers as his mind tries to fill in the gaps. But mostly he dreams of places he's never been and people he's never met, speaking in languages he doesn't know but always understands. He dreams the world in colors, bright reds, dark blues, vibrant greens. A world more vivid than he's ever seen. And the brilliant hues paint scenes of carnage and pain. It's beautiful, and he can feel the grin stretch across his face, and he feasts.

Sometimes he opens his eyes and his eyes open, and sometimes he knows where he is, but always he knows he's back in Beacon Hills. He goes to Scott, to his dad, asks for help and feels lost, displaced. He can feel his grip slipping, and part of him doesn't mind because everything here looks so dark and dull and he's so tired of being afraid.

There's a girl in his dreams, or a boy. He thinks it may have been both at some point, at different times, different occasions of the same event. And their face is Kira's and is bathed in this gorgeous aura made of light. And he smiles at Stiles sadly and her touch burns, and they whisper sorry, and for just a moment, he feels a sort of terrified awe, but it's still his game. Stiles kisses Kira's cheek as that gorgeous golden light drains from her to him in lines of rich purple.

Usually. Sometimes it doesn't end quite so well.

There's a man sometimes, in his dreams that aren't his, who Stiles only catches glimpses of. He seems out of place, like he's not really supposed to be there. But even though Stiles can't see him clearly, he seems familiar, _truly_ familiar. He's someone _Stiles_ knows, and he lingers at the edges in shadow, giving off just an impression of light, clear blue.

Stiles wakes in the clinic, shoving a sword deep into his best friend's gut, and part of him screams, tries to pull back, but he isn't actually in control, and he just feels so hungry. He feels it, Scott's pain, and it calls to him. He wants to _taste_ it. And then someone grabs him from behind and sticks a needle in his neck. Deaton. That asshole.

Stiles wakes in his room, in the dark, and hears a voice whisper his name. He steps to the door, compelled, and expects to find it locked, just like the last couple times this has happened, but it swings open at the slightest touch. On the other side, he stares into his own haggard face.

"Everyone has it, but no one can lose it," his double croaks.

"A shadow," Stiles whispers.

 

Stiles wakes up himself, in control, and tries to do damage control, but he knows it won't last. And it doesn't.

He doesn't think the game is a dream, doesn't know how long they play, isn't sure how the nogitsune is always here when Stiles knows he's also out _there_ , doesn't even know how he knows how to play. But none of it matters, really. The game becomes everything. The game is _real_. And he knows he's losing, and that's bad, but he still starts to enjoy himself a bit as they trade riddles and threats. Until he hears Scott roar.

It's worse, being awake now, not sure if he's even real or if his actual body is the one that spirited away Lydia. Stiles knows there's still a connection, though, because the world around him looks vibrant even as he feels himself fading away. He can feel death closing in, but it's okay. It's okay as long as _his_ is the last death, because he doesn't think he can handle feeling the nogitsune's glee again as another one of his friends dies.

After they set their plan in motion, after the bite, after Stiles watches himself turn to ash, he blacks out, and for a short time he dreams of nothing.

Stiles wakes in a hospital bed, with Scott asleep in a chair on one side and his dad asleep in a chair on the other. He tries to sit up, but his arms are too shaky, his voice croaks when he tries to talk. And that sardonic part of him that never shuts up thinks, 'Well, at least I know I'm not a werewolf.' Scott stirs, sitting up quickly when he notices Stiles.

"Hey, you're awake," he says earnestly, as Scott does all things, but softly so as not to wake Stiles' dad. "How are you feeling?"

"Kind of like I played punching bag for a werewolf and then ate a handful of fresh volcanic ash." Stiles has to clear his throat before he goes on and winces at how that scratches. "What did I miss?" Scott hesitates, so briefly most wouldn't notice, before resting a hand on Stiles' arm and drawing out some of the pain. Stiles isn't most.

"After the nogitsune kind of…"

"Shattered? Disintegrated? Crumbled?"

"Yeah. Anyway, you sort of- passed out. We took you back to my place so my mom could look you over, but when you didn't wake up after a day, we had to bring you in here. The doctor said you showed signs of electrocution and severe exhaustion, but other than that, all your tests came back fine. _All_ of them," Scott reassures him.

"And everyone else?"

Scott hesitates, just for a second. "Aiden's dead. Ethan is planning to leave. Everyone else is okay, though. And the nogitsune is gone for sure, so it can't hurt anyone else. We're gonna be okay. _You're_ gonna be okay."

Stiles nods in understanding, but all the colors look a touch too vivid, the dark a little too bright, and there's this weight in the back of his mind, like something is curled up there, wrapped in layers of brain matter like blankets as it licks its wounds. And he's afraid Scott is wrong. No one can lose their shadow.

\---

 

It's impossible for things to go back to normal. They can't just hit rewind, go back to the way it was before. They're all changed. But for the most part, things settle. For two weeks after he's released from the hospital with a miraculous clean bill of health, Stiles wonders if he's just paranoid. It's not like it's without precedent.

He stares at his reflection in the mirror and wonders if his eyes were always that warm gold or if he's just imagining things. Something moves in his peripheral vision, a figure lingering in shadow and a flash of blue, and he snaps his head around, something stirring in the back of his mind.

"Derek."

"Stiles." Derek steps further into the room, into the light, and looks him up and down. Stiles shivers.

"What's up?"

Derek hums. "Scott said you were acting off still. I wanted to check."

"You mean Scott's still figuring out his alpha senses and asked you to come make sure all is as well as I say it is." Derek shrugs. "So what's the verdict? Am I me?"

"You can stop worrying so much," Derek says as he makes for the open window. "You smell fine." He pauses with a knee on the window ledge as soon as he says it, and Stiles stifles a snort, then leaves without another word.

The room looks dimmer now, somehow. Maybe it _is_ all in his head. Maybe that feeling of something settled but alert in the back of his mind is just his paranoia filling in the spaces. A sudden hunger hits him and Stiles remembers he hasn't eaten since breakfast. Paranoia can wait ‘til after he's had pizza.

\---

The hunger doesn't go away. No matter how much he eats, there's still this gnawing craving for _something_. It makes Stiles irritable, and he knows it's probably the paranoia, but it still feels like everyone is skittish around him, which makes it that much worse. He's not sure what exactly makes him pick the fight with Isaac, or how he ropes Malia into it. Blame it on his ADD, baby. All he knows is that watching it escalate until Scott steps in fills him with a sick joy, and he feels a little less like crawling out of his skin.

When Scott comes up to him after and saps the pain from his possibly fractured hand, Stiles watches the lines weaves up Scott's arm intently. He licks his lips, clears his throat, and looks away. He knows what's wrong now.

\---

 

Stiles oversleeps. He wakes up to a blaring alarm and a banging on his door. He slams his injured hand into the alarm without thinking and curses his way through throwing on acceptable, probably clean, clothes. The knocking starts again.

"Yeah, dad, I'm coming." It's not his dad, and it finally occurs to him that it's dark in the room. His doppelganger still looks worse for wear, but definitely better than the pile of ash he was the last Stiles saw him. He smiles.

"Ask me a riddle, Stiles."

 

Stiles dreams again. He dreams in colors that are vivid but harsh. He dreams of hunger and loneliness. There's a girl in the dream. Someone he doesn't know. And this isn't the way he'd do it if he had a choice, but he's starving and out of options. He draws out her pain and panic as long as he can, but there's no chaos, no real strife. The hunger abates, but it's never quite as filling when he has to do it all himself.

He waits for nightfall to move on, painting lazy pictures in the blood. The colors aren't as harsh at night. Everything takes on a blue tinge, and blue's just pretty.

 

Stiles dreams he's himself, setting up little pranks around the school, digging up a couple of the animal traps missed in the woods. He catches a jogger in one of them and rushes to help. A little adjustment and the trap clenches tighter. Two more show up moments later, and Stiles can taste their panic like frosting. One trips a wire and the arrow catches him right in the chest. Stiles has to take care of the third by hand, but that's okay. After he's gone, Stiles gets to sit by the one in the trap and drink in his sweet pain until he bleeds out. Everything is gorgeous greens and reds.

Stiles curls in on himself in the dark room in his mind. Doesn't vomit, though it's a close thing, just wraps a blanket around himself and shakes until the door creaks open. The thing with his face looks healthy now. It crouches beside him and runs a warm hand through his hair, looking at him almost tenderly, pitying.

"Something wholly unreal, yet seems real to I. Think, Stiles. Tell me, where does it lie?" It asks softly, and Stiles fights back the nausea.

"In the mind," he answers.

\---

 

His hand is completely healed, and the hunger is gone, which Stiles is glad for because his stomach turns just at the thought of sating his own appetite. He pushes away his lunch tray almost as soon as he sits down with it.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks, obviously concerned. "You've been kinda off this week." And Stiles nods even though it's a total lie.

And then he wonders why. This is Scott. Stiles tells Scott everything. And Scott should know if the nogitsune is still lingering in Stiles' head, coming out to enact Saw 12. But when he opens his mouth, none of it comes out.

"If you have it, you don't share it. If you share it, you don't have it," his voice says instead. "What is it?" It's a testament to their friendship that Scott looks only mildly confused.

"Uh, I don't know?"

"Sorry," Stiles says. "Just a thing I heard earlier. I've been trying to figure it out." He hasn't. He knows the answer. But Scott either doesn't notice or chooses not to call him out on the lie.

"A secret," Lydia says flatly, clearly unimpressed, as she sits down beside him.

 

Stiles only tries to tell Scott one more time and gets a splitting migraine for his trouble. And he worries constantly now about what he'll find every time he opens a door. Each day that passes with Stiles in control of his own body makes him more and more anxious. He doesn't sleep for fear of being trapped in dreams again, and now people are starting to realize something is wrong, but he still can't tell them.

It takes a week and a half for the hunger to come back, and now it's hard to keep normal food down. Especially since the lack of sleep is taking its toll. If exhaustion and malnutrition don't kill him, the worry on his dad's face every day might.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks again. "You need to eat, Stiles."

 _"Eat, Stiles,"_ a voice whispers, and Stiles could swear he feels hot breath on his ear.

"Are you sleeping at all?" his dad asks when he finds Stiles up reading about exorcisms at four in the morning.

 _"Sleep, Stiles,"_ the voice orders.

A kid in his biology lab cuts his hand open, and Stiles' mouth waters. He claims nausea and excuses himself to the restroom and dry heaves over the toilet because there's nothing in his stomach. He feels sick, burning, gasps for breath and squeezes his eyes shut against the bright, harsh colors.

He's waiting on the other side of the stall door, and he looks- He looks disappointed.

"Feed me and I live," he says. "Give me drink, and I die. What am I?" Stiles knows the answer. He _does_. It's a simple, common riddle he's known since elementary school. But he can't- Everything is bright and harsh and he's sweating and _hungry_. And for the life of him, he can't remember it.

 

Stiles dreams a dream. He's not sure whose dream it is, but it doesn't really matter. Everything is a calming blue and warm and comfortable. There's someone behind him, pressed against his back, solid. Their arms wrap around him, their lips trail kisses along his neck, and Stiles lets himself sink further into them. Safe.

Stiles dreams a dream that isn't a dream at all, nor a memory. He wakes in a state that isn't really waking. It's like sleep paralysis, except his body is still moving. Other Stiles, the nogitsune, is still in control. They kneel beside a woman, feeding on her pain as they put pressure on her wound. They feel satisfied, pleased even, but Stiles also knows they didn't do this; didn't even orchestrate it.

They feed, and keep an ear out for approaching footsteps, but they have some time. Scott is still occupied fighting the creature that did this.

"It's okay," they say calmly, pressing harder until a bone snaps and the woman gasps in pain, eyes wild. "You'll be fine."

 

Stiles sits in his dark room and waits. He waits for a knock, for the door to creak open and reveal his shadow on the other side. But it never comes. A couple times he tries the knob and finds it unlocked, and for a short time he'll watch someone else, someone very good at pretending to be him, live in his life. Most of the time, though, he finds it locked, and he pounds on it, screaming, until he's too exhausted to do anything but sleep and dream.

The man, the figure in shadow that hints of blue, appears more and more frequently. Closer now, a little clearer. Still, he disappears every time Stiles tries to look at him directly.

"Why are you doing this?" Stiles asks when the Other finally comes.

"To save you, Stiles," he says. "To save _us._ I will not let you let us die. Ask me a riddle, Stiles."

"How long have I been in here?"

He smirks. "It's _your_ mind, Stiles. You've always been here. Ask me a riddle."

\---

 

"I'm worried about you," Scott says. His dad says. Lydia says. Melissa says. Everyone is worried about Stiles, and Stiles can't tell any of them that it's not _him_ they should be worried about.

But he visits the woman in the hospital, the one they'd fed on, who hardly remembers anything, and she smiles at him. She thanks him, tells him they think she'll make a full recovery, says he saved her life. And he knows they also hurt her, but it still gets a little easier after that, to eat, to sleep.

The fear is still there, though. He's different, changing, in little ways that still scare the hell out of him. It's not just colors. He sees a little better, hears a little more. He finds himself sitting still in the middle of Biology, which rarely happens even on Adderall. One of the guys from the lacrosse team grabs Stiles' shoulder from behind and Stiles breaks his wrist before he even knows what he's doing. His new therapist calls it post traumatic stress, but there's no "post" about it.

The next time the hunger hits him, there's a rogue omega in town, stirring up trouble, and chaos abounds. Stiles finds himself temporarily sated without ever having to leave the driver's seat. The panic attack that follows is what triggers the swap. The last thing he sees is Derek's worried expression.

 

Stiles dreams in hues and shades of blue.

 

They open their eyes in the middle of Derek's apartment, standing in the spot where a boy had died. They run their fingers along a pipe and feel the echo of blood and pain. This place is rife with the remnants of suffering, and they never want to leave.

"Stiles?" Derek asks, sitting up in his bed, voice thick with sleep. "What are you doing?"

"Do you ever think about him?" they ask softly, and they can feel a wave of anguish come from Derek. They shiver with it, but can't find it in them to be pleased. "Living here like this-"

"All the time," he says.

They nod and finally turn to look at him, fresh from sleep but still looking prepared to leave at a moment's notice. "Thanks," they say, "for earlier. Really, dude. We appreciate it."

"We?"

" _I_ ," they correct. "Sorry, still not awake, I guess."

Derek doesn't look entirely convinced. His nostrils flare slightly, but they know he won't be able to tell any difference. "Well, it's too late for you to go home now," he says. "Go back to sleep."

They nod. Stiles goes back to sleep.

\---

 

"Though eyes I have, they have no sight. I can't be seen in black of night. If you move left, then I go right. What am I?"

\---

 

Stiles growls in frustration and snaps the tip of his pencil again. His leg bounces uncontrollably until Scott, his very best friend Scott who has long since learned to live with Stiles' frequent annoying behaviors, gives him a _look_. So with great effort, he tones it down to a foot tapping. And switching to pen stops the repeated tip breaking, but it doesn't magically teach Stiles Trigonometry. Two minutes later, he's throwing his notebook across the room.

"What's going on with you?" Scott asks. "You were teaching me this stuff two days ago." Stiles shrugs.

 

"This needs to stop," he says to his reflection later. "You can't just keep cutting me off from everything. You're going to make us flunk out of school. If that matters to you at all. If not, then go ahead. Keep drawing attention to us. It won't be _my_ exorcism." His reflection scowls.

\---

 

"I have much to say, but never speak. I open, but you cannot walk through me. I have a spine, but no bones. What am I?"

\---

 

Stiles dreams another dream that's not a dream. They stalk the halls of the high school until the sun goes down and follow a group of teachers out. They don't care about the group, though, just the one that climbs into the old silver Buick. It's easy to follow, few turns between the high school and the road out of town. And then they're on the dark road through the preserve, and it takes hardly a thought to send a tree falling into the road.

They hold back and watch, and the driver's panic is almost tangible, even from here, as he discovers his brakes no longer respond, no matter how hard he presses. The screeching crunch of metal is like music to their ears.

 

"Where's Mr. Pace?" Scott whispers to him in Trig the next day, as their sub puts in some educational video or other. Stiles swallows hard and shrugs.

"I heard he was in the hospital," says a girl next to them. "Car accident or something."

Scott is still looking at him questioningly, like Stiles should know more. And he should, does, Stiles has never been able to keep his nose out of his dad's business. Usually he'd be all over this. Except he knows exactly what happened, he just can't let Scott know that he knows.

"First I've heard of it," he says, and bites down an irrational irritation when the sub shushes him. Scott gives him one last concerned look, but seems to let it go when Stiles shrugs again and hunkers down in his seat to feign interest in the film.

 

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Stiles grits out hiding in the restroom until he can be sure Scott's gone. His reflection smirks.

"It worked," it says. "No teacher, no test. And I don't know what you're complaining about. We both know we both enjoyed it."

Breaking the mirror only makes his reflection laugh in the shards. He washes the blood from his hand, and wipes away the water to reveal smooth skin.

"I have a riddle for you, Stiles," it says in his mind.

"Save it," he responds.

 

Stiles doesn't go visit Mr. Pace in the hospital like he did that woman however long ago. He doesn't even want to, doesn't care to, which may bother him more than anything else. And he can't go home, back to that room where he's never quite sure he's awake. So he drives, he thinks, with no destination in mind, until he finally parks in front of the old Hale house and wishes he could say he doesn't know why. The place seems peaceful, if a bit eerie, now, but nothing can mask the things that have happened here. Not to their senses. They _feel_ them.

His own voice in his head tells Stiles to go down. Down into the tunnels he knows are there. To taste the ash and smell the char. This was chaos, strife, fear. So much pain. So much-

Stiles doesn't go down to the tunnels, doesn't even venture into the living room where there's still a hole in the floor and the moonlight through the broken roof paints everything in the most vibrant colors. Instead, he sits on the stairs and stares blankly at the dusty floor and tries not to feel at home. Still, they can't resist breathing deep, smelling char and blood and wolfsbane. Their fingers trace idly along every scrape in the wood they can find. They hear the wind through broken windows and close their eyes, humming softly.

A low growl travels through the door they'd left ajar, and Stiles tries to tense, a spike of panic running through him, but they don't move even as the steps draw closer.

"This one is not a threat." Stiles is told gently. Then, quieter, like it's sharing a secret even though no one else could hear anyway, and somehow Stiles already knows, "We like this one."

The footsteps stop in the doorway. "Stiles?" They open their eyes, slowly, and the way Derek looks at them, curious, suspicious, makes Stiles nervous, but the feeling is far away, muffled. It's not the important one right now. They need to stay in control if they don't want to be found out. Stiles opens their mouth to respond and freezes. The Other pushes gently in his mind, and they don't bother with the riddles this time. It's a mental Chinese fire drill.

"Hey," they say. "Sorry, just… needed to be alone for a while, I guess." Derek's face softens, but he raises an eyebrow.

"Here?"

"You know some place better? Anyway," their voice lowers. "I don't actually have any nightmares about this place."

They can hear Derek swallow hard and the nearly silent 'That makes one of us.' that no normal human could have heard, and suddenly Stiles is just so _tired_.

There's no force pushing him back. Nothing keeps him from watching, lingering in the forefront to see how it all falls out. Nothing but his own exhaustion. The situation is under control, so Stiles retreats back into the dark room in his mind. The door stays wide open, but Stiles doesn't actually care either way. He crawls into his mental bed, wraps himself in imaginary blankets, and willingly falls into whatever dreams may come.

 

Stiles dreams in the blues of night and of light through water. He dreams of clear blue eyes. He can't be sure whose dream it is, or maybe it's just _their_ dream, but it's really, really not important right now. He can't care about anything else when he's busy feeling warm hands running through his hair, down his sides, gripping his hips tight as their owner bucks up into him.

"Fuck, Derek," they groan, lifting up and dropping down to meet the next thrust. It's not enough. " _Harder._ "

He listens, flipping them over on their back and pounding so hard they can barely breathe. Still, it's _not enough_. They're ravenous. They wrap their legs around his waist and pull as he thrusts, but it's their hands on his shoulders, digging claws into flesh, that gets them what they really want. They bring one hand to the front and drag a path down his chest to see, feel, smell the blood welling up. His hips stutter, his perfect control slipping a bit as his eyes flash that gorgeous blue and a growl rumbles through his chest.

They watch, pleased, as the scratches heal in moments, then they do it again. His fangs come out now, and they pull themself up to lick at them, dragging their tongue along the tip of one until they taste blood and coaxing his mouth open further, into a filthy kiss. When they fall back, unable to focus much more on anything but the flex of his muscles under their legs and the rough thrusts into that spot that feels _so good_ , he drops his head into the crook of their neck, breathing hard.

" _Stiles_ ," he begs, and they can feel the scrape of his fangs against the tender flesh.

"Do it," they order, and the fangs sink in.

 

Stiles wakes up breathless in his bed, rutting against the form stretched fully along his back.

"Fuck, Stiles," his own voice breathes into his hair, his own hand reaching around to rub his cock through the sheets, just the way he likes. It doesn't stay there long, straying up to pinch and flick at a nipple, then further to grip his throat, just hard enough, just long enough, for him to really _feel_ it.

One of Stiles' hands, his actual hands, wraps around his abandoned cock, stroking faster, gripping tighter, than he normally would. The other has found its way behind his head to tangle in and tug at his double's hair.

The hand around his throat tightens, more and more, until his lungs are burning and his own grip tightens reflexively as he tries to gasp, body jerking. Then it releases. He has only a moment to wonder what might be happening to his real body. Is it also gasping for breath? Will he wake up with his own handprint around his neck? Or is it, heh, all in his head? The thoughts are chased away by the press of fingers against his ass, and even as he pushes into the burn of it, they both know it won't be enough. The gnawing hunger from the dream is still there.

Stiles pulls away, just to turn and straddle himself with a grace he'd never had until this being entered his mind. And he needs- _Needs_. They breathe hard, in time; the same callouses brush the same skin; bite at the same lips with the same desperation. And when Stiles sinks down too fast on his own cock, long thin fingers pressing bruises into his hips, they choke out the same strangled sob.

The pace they set is punishing, and they moan in sync as they make, then pull the pain from each other until finally they come, hard, together.

The Other sits up, still inside him, fingers still tracing lightly over Stiles' skin, sending shivers through him and raising goosebumps. Stiles barely registers that he's doing the same. The nogitsune sighs into Stiles' shoulder, noses along the tender flesh of his throat, and presses a kiss to the crease where shoulder meets neck, right where fangs had sunk in in their dream. If it had been a dream. It felt so real, and other dreams had been equally as vivid, but those- Those had actually been memories. Oh god. Stiles stiffens and scrambles away, toppling off the bed in his haste. He suddenly feels like he might be sick.

"Really, Stiles?" the Other sighs, flopping back on the bed.

"What did you do to him?" Stiles demands. "What did you do to _me?_ "

" _Nothing._ It was a fucking dream, Stiles. Literally. We just got excited."

"BS. I _know_ I'm changing. Becoming more like _you_. What, are you just absorbing me? Taking over? Whatever you're plotting, leave Derek out of it." The nogitsune sits straight up, glaring.

"This isn't _my_ doing, Stiles," he spits. Like Stiles would believe that.

"Right. That's why you regularly lock me up in my own head and won't let me tell anyone you're here. Makes total sense." He's in Stiles' face in a split second, eyes flashing, teeth bared, looking the least like Stiles he has since he lost the bandages, and Stiles realizes it's the first he's been truly afraid in months.

"Go ahead. Tell your friends. Your joke of a pack. They can't do anything now. _No one_ can. You think I want to be stuck here, trapped in your head, little boy? You think it's some thrill to go to school and make nice with the locals? By the time I figured out what was happening, it was too late. I _can't leave_. And the more time passes, the more we _both_ change. There's no winner or loser in this game. No one is black or white. We aren't fighting for dominance, and if you'd crawl out of this sad little cave you _made for yourself,_ you would realize that some time in the next week, or month, or year if we try really hard, there won't be a you or a me. There will only be _us._ " Through it all, Stiles gets the impression of snapping jaws, and he comes away feeling vaguely chastised. But he still has to try to get the last word.

"Wha-"

"I didn't do anything to Derek. I _wouldn't_ now. Go see for yourself. I want to sleep."

\---

 

Stiles wakes up in Derek's apartment again, but not in his bed. He tells himself he's relieved, not disappointed. There's no reason to be disappointed. Derek isn't in sight, but he can hear someone moving around up in the loft, and he hopes his increased heart rate isn't enough to have caught Derek's attention. While he's worried, wants to see Derek, just to be sure, Stiles also knows on some level that the nogitsune was telling the truth. It wouldn't hurt Derek, not seriously, but Stiles isn't so sure it wouldn't, and didn't, do _other_ things. From his current inability to see much in the dark, Stiles is pretty confident it wouldn't tell him what happened if he asked. And if anything _did_ happen- Well, Stiles definitely isn't prepared to face that.

A quick check on his phone tells him it's nearing midnight. And he's missed three texts from Scott and a call from his dad, so he's probably in pretty deep shit. Listening to the voicemail will have to wait, though, if he has any hope of making it out without alerting Derek. As quietly as he can, he gathers up his things and heads for the door. But "as quietly as he can" suddenly isn't as quiet as he's gotten used to it being. Especially since he manages to trip and stumble over nothing.

"I'm amazed by your stealthiness," Derek calls after him. "Except I knew as soon as you woke up." Stiles freezes, gripping his bag tight, and takes a deep breath. He can do this. He can turn around and face Derek. Whatever may have happened, just _looking_ at him is no big deal.

Stiles sighs dramatically, with his whole upper body, and swings around. It's better to do it quick, right? Like a band-aid. He can do this. "Man, you couldn't have just-"

He was wrong. So wrong. Unbelievably wrong. Completely, totally, fucking cut the red wire _wrong_. Because Derek is standing there in the moonlight, shirtless, and all Stiles can think of is the dream, and he feels a phantom pain in the crook of his neck and a shiver courses through him.

Derek raises an eyebrow, and if Stiles was in the habit of hiding his attraction to people, he'd flush, but he's not. He may squirm a little, though. "Just?" Derek asks.

"Let me think I got away with it. Way to ruin my Batman aspirations, dude." Stiles clears his throat, gesturing to the door and avoiding looking at Derek's face. "Anyway, my dad called, so-"

"Are you even awake enough to drive?"

"I'm _fine_. I should- I should really go." Derek catches him as he opens the door, plucking the keys from his hand. Stiles would protest, but there's something in the way Derek is looking at him, so intently; it's like he's looking for something, and Stiles is terrified to think of what.

After a minute, though, Derek backs off, flipping through the keys until he finds a particular one, which he holds up as he passes them back. Stiles doesn't need to look at it to know what key it is. It's one he isn't technically supposed to have. The key to Derek's apartment.

"I don't want to know how you got this," Derek says before Stiles can start fumbling through an explanation. "But if you need somewhere- Use it." He drops the keys in Stiles' hand and heads back toward the stairs while Stiles swallows his heart back down out of his throat and lets himself out.

\---

 

Stiles dreams his own dreams, the kind he had before. Dim fantasies and nonsense, and dark nightmares where he's actually afraid. And finds himself feeling almost bereft. There's been nothing, no sound or sense of the nogitsune since he woke up in Derek's apartment. He should be pleased, he's back to being himself for the most part. But Stiles is human. The world seems duller, darker, and there's so much going on but none of it matters and he can't seem to stop fidgeting, even for a second. And he actually kind of feels bad when he throws a lacrosse ball in Greenberg's face and breaks his nose, but he can't hear the crunch from this distance, even though he feels like he should, and for some reason all of this is pissing him off.

Nothing stares back at him through his reflection, no matter how long or deeply he stares. There are no riddles, no hunger. Everything is boring and frustrating, like a month of ADHD has just built up in his brain and now the dam has broken and it's hitting him all at once. He'd skipped English just because he felt like it, "accidentally" poured milk all over Lydia's snotty successor at lunch, and left practice early when even Coach was checking on Greenberg and looking at Stiles in horror.

Now, he flinches, washing the blood and glass from his hand again, though this time it doesn't just heal. He's pretty sure punching the mirror wasn't even a conscious decision. It's that or his short term memory is even more shot than he'd thought.

"Stiles?" Scott asks warily. "I smell blood. Are you- Are you okay?"

"Fine," Stiles grits out, biting back the growing urge to break something else, anything, just to feel it shatter. He's a weak little human, after all, and there's not much around that won't break him back.

"Okay, so what was that out there? A couple guys are taking Greenberg to the hospital. His nose won't stop bleeding."

"It was an accident," Stiles says, even though Scott is obviously going to hear the lie. He's angry at himself for running, now. For missing out on all that pain and panic, however minimal it may be in comparison to so many other things he's witnessed this year. And then he gets angrier for feeling that way.

"Stiles… That didn't look like an accident."

"Well, it was. Don't fucking go all alpha on me, Scott. I'm not your beta. You can't just _shout_ me into submission. I'm n- I'm-" He slams his fists against the sink, and the right one throbs, blood smearing across the white porcelain. " _Fuck_ … fuck."

"I know. I know, but you- You've been kinda weird for a while, and we all thought you were just adjusting or something. But this… Stiles, this isn't like you." The ugly laughter punches out of him, uncontrollable, because, god, the _irony_. This is exactly like Stiles, because this is the first he's really _been_ Stiles since they drowned themselves in ice water.

He fights it down, along with another biting remark, because he's not angry at Scott. Scott or Greenberg or that girl Laney. The one he's mad at is in his head, giving him the cold shoulder. And if the nogitsune is really ignoring him completely, well, there's nothing to stop him now.

"Sit down," Stiles says. "There's something I need to tell you."

\---

 

They decide not to tell almost anyone, Scott and Stiles. After all, panic and conflict are the last things they need right now, and if certain people were to find out, there would be no escaping it. They go to Deaton, though. And Stiles votes they also go to Kira's mom, since she's apparently the local expert, but Scott vetoes that, too worried she'll stab first and ask questions later or something.

So for over a week, Stiles lets himself be cut, burned, shocked, injected, even drowned again, for the sake of exorcisms. He also eats some of the foulest things he's pretty sure have never been called edible. But with each failed attempt and every day that passes, the anger that drove him here slips away. And in its place there's just… nothing. He feels empty, lethargic. Scott almost literally has to drag him to the fifth exorcism, because the anger is gone and he can't find any motivation in the void that remains.

Stiles doesn't tell Scott, but after this one fails, he gives up on the idea that he'll ever be rid of the nogitsune. And there's a distant relief in the thought, because he looks in the mirror at night and sees nothing, hears nothing, and everything feels distant and wrong, like he's missing some part of himself. And there's fear, he knows, though it's almost out of reach, that he's no longer whole on his own. But there's another fear, closer and greater, that one of the exorcisms will work and he'll end up feeling this way forever. He doesn't _want_ the nogitsune gone, not anymore, and looking at the boils on his chest, and feeling close to deaf and blind the world is so muted, he wonders if that's really such a bad thing.

That doesn't mean he stops the exorcisms, though. Stiles is about ninety-eight percent sure he doesn't have the energy to convince Scott to let it go. Not when he still keeps looking at Stiles like he's on his death bed. It would be frustrating if Stiles had it in him to be frustrated. So instead, he lets himself be driven back to Deaton's and lays on the table while the vet does whatever it is he does around him. He lets himself drift throughout it, hardly registers the pain as he swims through his own mind, looking for any sign of its other resident.

When it's done, unsuccessful again, Stiles can't move. It's like being paralyzed by the kanima again, and he really doesn't care. Scott is saying something, but all Stiles can hear is this rushing silence, like putting a conch shell to your ear.

Stiles sleeps, but he doesn't dream. At least, he doesn't think he does. But it's hard to tell, when he wakes up, if he isn't actually still asleep. He imagines dreams might actually feel realer than this. They have in the past.

The silence finally ends on the seventh attempt. Or the eighth. Ninth? Stiles may have lost count. He's not sure he even really remembers coming to the clinic, and he definitely doesn't recall any of the set up. He just knows that one second he's drifting ever further from reality, and the next it feels like he's being torn apart from the inside. The pain is blinding, truly blinding, but the feeling that accompanies it, like someone is reaching in with icy claws and ripping out a piece of his soul- That is so much worse. He hears himself screaming in stereo.

" _Stop,_ " he gasps. "Oh god, Scott, _please_. You're killing us both."

They hope Scott listens, makes Deaton stop, but they're not sure since they black out.

\---

 

Stiles thinks they dream. Colors, feelings, memories, they all blur together. None of it stands out, but it's all there at their fingertips; all there in their mind. _Theirs_.

Stiles wakes in his room, the one in their mind, with a familiar body against his back and its familiar arm wrapped around his waist. They don't say anything for a long while, no apologies or explanations. They both just _know_ , lying there, breathing in time. They know the remorse and pain and reasonings behind it all. They know how each other felt, separated as they were, because it's a loss shared between them. As all things are shared between them now.

"It's time to wake up," Other Stiles says eventually, even though it isn't necessary.

"Yeah," Stiles agrees, but doesn't move yet. After a few minutes, he speaks again, needing to say it aloud even though they both feel it, "I'm scared."

"Yeah," Other Stiles agrees. "Me too."

\---

 

Stiles wakes up in Scott's bed, not tied down, but still barely able to move. They feel almost groggy, weak, but the pains Stiles had accumulated over the past week are gone, healed now that their self-enforced isolation has ended. Gathering what strength they have, they try to sit up, with some modicum of success even. Scott is at their side in a second, but pulls back as soon as it seems like he's going to try to help. They understand.

"Stiles?" Scott asks tentatively, looking them over, likely searching for some sign of his best friend. Stiles hopes he finds it, that they haven't changed so much as to be unrecognizable.

"Yeah, buddy. It's me." Stiles tries to smile reassuringly, but it almost feels lopsided; like coming out of the dentist with only one side of your mouth numbed. "Kanima venom?"

Scott nods, still studying him.

"Figures. Gets me every time." It's a joke. An invitation to reciprocate. An offering to lighten the air. Scott doesn't take it.

"Tell me," he says seriously. "Tell me you're Stiles. I want to listen to your heart. Tell me you're not the nogitsune."

They could. They could tell him both those things and keep their heartbeat steady. They could tell him _anything_ and keep their heartbeat steady. But lying to Scott is still not something they're comfortable with.

"I'm Stiles," they say. "But-" Whatever hope there was lingering in Scott's eyes seems to die, and it kills.

"We're going to fix this," Scott tells them. "We were on the right track. We're going to get that thing out of you, Stiles." He says it like he's talking _through_ them. Like he thinks Stiles is still locked up inside them somewhere, cut off from the world. And that's not gonna fly. Not any more.

"No," Stiles says, pulling away as much as he can, as much as he dares, hoping that little extra separation will let Scott see him as the friend he's looking for so desperately.

"No-"

"No, Scott. No more exorcisms. It's over, okay? There- There isn't a me and him to separate anymore. It's permanent."

"We can still-"

" _No._ " Stiles sighs, dragging one arm up to run a hand through his hair. It's progress. "Scott, I don't want to. The way it felt, before that last try? I can't do that again. I _can't_. No jokes, no exaggerations. Scott, I will literally _die_. I would rather this. I really think it'll be okay. Do you understand?" He doesn't. They know he doesn't. But Scott nods anyway and sits on the edge of the bed and holds their hand as they slowly regain the ability to move, and it's more than they could have asked for, really.

\---

 

It takes more convincing this time, to get Scott to agree not to tell anyone, but he does, for now. He's worried, though, confused. It's hard for him to wrap his head around the idea that Stiles is okay with this, and he keeps looking at them like he thinks they'll snap at any moment and go on a murder spree, which is understandable, but they _won't_.

"I'm still me," Stiles tries to assure him. "I mean, yeah, we- _I_ 'm different, but not completely. I'm not going to hurt you or dad or any of our friends. I would never do that, and I still won't."

Scott nods, but doesn't look mollified in the least, glancing nervously at all the people passing around them in the hallway. Between classes, he never leaves their side. "And what about everyone else?" he asks. "You said you've needed to feed. What about the people you aren't friends with? What about Greenberg and Mr. Pace?"

Stiles bites back their immediate response of 'What about them?' and also doesn't correct him that they never fed on Greenberg, because they know those are absolutely not the answers Scott is looking for. Instead, they copy him, studying the crowd around them. People whose names and faces hardly mattered to Stiles before and which are nothing now compared to what he feels off them; compared to the panic attack this one is about to have or the fight that one is having with her mom or the bloodlust that one ( _Malia_ , one of them whispers, _that one is Malia._ ) is barely holding back. They sigh.

"We're working on it," they say, "and you should probably talk to her before _she_ goes on a murder spree."

\---

 

They're starving. It's been two weeks since the final exorcism, a month since they last truly fed, and they're so hungry they're about ready to just stab someone, any random passing person, and have done with it. But Scott has been hanging around almost constantly, watching their every move. It's kind of amazing they've managed not to stab _him_.

But Stiles _wouldn't do that_.

Okay, he would. He totally would. He's done worse things to Scott for far pettier reasons. But with the general distrust Scott has toward them right now, they're trying _really hard_ not to go there. Lacrosse is the only thing holding them over, but they're benched for three games after the Greenberg thing, so it hardly even amounts to a snack.

So they try not to look too gleeful when a couple acromantulas ("They're not actually called that, Stiles." "Well, they _should_ be.") move into the woods, followed closely by the group of hunters tracking them, but really, who can blame them? It's impossible _not_ to grin when they swing their bat loosely around and then smash it into too many opalescent eyes; and when it comes away easily, coated in this neon lime goo; and when they kneel down, run their fingers through spider blood, and then dig them into a prone hunter's side, right where the creature had taken out a good chunk; and as they drink in wave after wave of sweet pain and agonized screams, and the glorious sound of discord rain down around them.

Who can blame them, if they take a moment to eat, drink, and be merry? It's bliss.

Until they hear a roar of anger and pain; one they can't ignore.

Derek is already down when they find him, an arrow in his gut and a gun aimed between his eyes. The smell of wolfsbane is faint, but it's there, and rage rolls through them. They don't bother with little things like announcing their presence. They're not concerned with a fair fight. After all, what is this hunter to them? Nothing. Derek, though- So instead, they step silently behind the hunter, frame his skull with their hands, and calmly snap his neck, smirking down at the body as it falls.

Of course, two seconds later, Derek has them pinned against a tree by their throat.

"No, really," they say. "No thanks needed. Not like we just saved your li-" Derek tightens his grip, cutting them off with a choking sound. He's in their face, teeth bared and eyes flashing oh-so-blue, _gorgeous_ blue, standing so close, and it's impossible to keep down the shiver of arousal.

"Who are you?" he growls, loosing his hold just enough for them to talk and only after they try to pry at his fingers.

"Stiles- I think," they choke out as their airway closes again, and they curse Stiles’ sensibilities, because part of them knows that here and now, with Derek angry and their friends fighting for their lives around them, it absolutely not the right time to be getting hot and bothered. The other part thinks it's the perfect time.

"You _think?_ "

"Derek!" Scott shouts as the sounds of battle die down. "Let him go!" Their hero.

"He's not Stiles."

"He is. Sort of."

" _Sort of? You think?_ He killed a hunter. Snapped his neck." Scott looks down at the body at their feet, then back to Stiles, questioning. They do their best to shrug, gesture at the arrow still embedded in Derek's abdomen, and not roll their eyes, but Derek squeezes tighter with every move they make. Scott sighs.

"We'll- talk about it. But he's not going to kill anyone else. _Right?_ " He looks from Derek to Stiles and they half-nod frantically. Several seconds later, Derek finally lets go.

\---

 

The fox is out of the bag, after that. Since most of the pack knows, obviously it follows that they need to tell everyone else as well. Sitting sullenly in a chair while Chris Argent pulls a gun on him, Stiles wonders why they don't just put it on the PA at school, broadcast it over the local pop station, make a fucking youtube video; if they really want to tell _everyone_. Scott rolls his eyes when they say this and points out that if they really minded, they wouldn't be smiling.

It's hard not to, with the conflict their announcement stirs up, though. It still doesn't stop them from sneaking into Argent's place and taking the firing pins out of random guns and swapping all his wolfsbane out for lavender, and maybe helping themself out to a couple things while they're there. Or from cutting out the power to the Yukimuras' neighborhood while Kira's practicing her shiny new kitsune powers after Noshiko pulls a sword on them. Kira gets put into extra training after that and is at odds with her mom for a week because, as she complains during lunch every day, it _wasn't her fault_.

Still, not all the reactions are so easily responded to. Like their dad, who downs more than one glass of whiskey and has a hard time not thinking of it like he's losing his son. And Lydia, who suddenly can't be around them, because while she still cares about part of them, she can't forgive the other for the deaths on their hands. For Allison. And Stiles has to wonder if Scott doesn't feel the same as them; if he sticks close but keeps looking at them with that almost hurt expression because he thinks they're killing his best friend, too.

Through it all, Derek is MIA, which could put them in a bad mood all on its own, but it's just one of a million things getting under their skin. They're never unsupervised, but always seem to be alone. Everyone is on edge around them, and there's a hesitation every time someone says their name. Stiles is bored and irritated and the itch to start trouble grows with each long day.

 

Stiles dreams; possibly more than they should, but it's about the only way they can keep from going to extremes while still basically on probation. So they snack on all the conflicted feelings rolling off their friends and try to ignore the guilt that sparks and nap and dream.

They dream of people they knew and places they've been. They dream in colors bright and dim; in sharp sensations and dull. They dream their pasts combined, relive the good and the bad, with a new perspective, as it all blends together.

Stiles wakes each time feeling more whole. And more restless.

The blue man is still in their dreams sometimes. Stiles knows who he is now, though, so he stops fading away when they stare too long or stray too close. Eventually, they stand side by side, and he spares them a glance now and then, brows furrowed, but says nothing, just watches the dreams. Always on the edges, even when Stiles tries to pull him in. Always, except for those times that the dreams _are_ dreams. Then, he groans their name and pants against their skin, hands hot and rough on their hips, shoulders, neck, ass. He pulls them close, buries himself deep within them. _Bleeds_ for them. And they respond in kind and wake up longing, calling for him.

 

Stiles reaches the breaking point before long and sneaks out in the middle of the night while his dad is asleep. It's almost like he's seventeen or something. He hikes his bag over a shoulder and literally pulls the jeep out of the driveway, they don't have the strength anymore to push it too far, but they at least get it another house down before hopping in and starting it up. No sense alerting his dad if they can help it.

It's not that hard to find what he's looking for, prowling around the preserve; goes a lot quicker than he'd planned. It's getting it downtown without being seen that's difficult. Still, they're getting stronger, gaining some of their old powers even if they'll never have all of them back. So they make it into Jungle, and order a drink they're actually given, well before closing. Stiles sits at the bar, chewing on a straw, pleased, as the screams and clamor start in the crowd along with the roar of the mountain lion.

The heavy hand on his shoulder isn't a surprise, he didn't expect to escape his watchdogs for long, but it is a surprise that it's not Scott standing there, looking scandalized. Instead it's Derek, scowling disapprovingly at them when Stiles grins. They don't bother to fight as he drags them out to the alley where his car is parked.

"I have him," Derek says into his phone as soon as Stiles gets into the passenger seat. "Or _them_. If you and the others take care of the mountain lion, I'll deal with this." Scott's voice agrees on the other end, almost inaudible under the shouts and crashes still rampant in the building. Stiles does take a bit of offense to the "be careful" he tacks on, though. Setting a cougar loose on the dance floor is one thing. Hurting Derek is a different matter entirely.

"You couldn't have waited just a little longer?" they ask when Derek gets in the car as well. They're still grinning, Derek still isn't. "It was just getting good."

Starting the car deliberately slowly, Derek shoots them a glare from his peripheral and says absolutely nothing.

"Oh, come on, dude. It's not like anyone's actually going to die. A real mountain lion in Beacon Hills? In the "Jungle"? It's _funny_."

"Nothing about this is funny," Derek snaps, "and the Stiles I know wouldn't think it was."

Stiles wishes people would stop talking like he's _dead_. You're not supposed to romanticize living people. "Wouldn't I, though? Derek, a year ago you got shot and almost died or lost your arm and I thought that was the coolest thing ever. I'm different, yeah, but that doesn't mean I'm not still Stiles."

There's no response to that, of course, since Derek's standard state is "killjoy". He starts the car though, and heads _away_ from the direction of Stiles' house.

"Sooo, where are we going?" they ask after a few minutes. Nothing. "Are we th-"

"If you say "are we there yet?" I will turn around and take you straight back home to your dad. Try me."

Stiles slumps down in their seat and sulks for the five minutes it takes to get to the warehouse. Once they've stopped, not another word spoken, Derek gets out, angrily, as he does, and Stiles takes their cue to follow. They stand in the middle of the large, open space while Stiles looks around and Derek looks at Stiles.

"Hit me," Derek says finally.

"What?"

"You need someone to hurt that bad? I'm here. Hit me." Even ignoring that he's _Derek_ , and thus their least likely target, that's still not how they work.

"No."

"Sti-"

" _No_ , Derek. This isn't _Fight Club_. We're not Jack's fucking senseless sadism. It's not about just hurting people, it's about panic and discord and all those little things humans feel so often but don't have enough of individually to sate us. And we're- I'm _still Stiles_. You all act like Stiles is dead, like I killed him, but I didn't. I'm still him, still here. I am here, he is here, he is me and we are all fucking together, okay?" They're falling back into wild gestures and raised tones, because that's what they do. Because they're still Stiles. They _are_. Right?

"You feed on pain, and you enjoy it."

"Yes," they agree, voice falling into something calmer, and they see Derek tense like he's preparing for a fight. "Yes, we do. And there's nothing that can be done to change that. But we won't hurt you, or Dad, or Scott, or any of the others; and we won't go around killing innocents. So if you're really hung up on this sadism thing, go fuck yourself. Humans go hunting for sport all the time. I'm allowed to enjoy my food, and I'm done with this conversation."

Stiles turns, heading toward the still open door. He'll walk back to the Jeep, because they like Derek, _feel_ for Derek, a lot, but they can't handle any more of this tonight. Can't handle his anger and distrust and willingness to sacrifice himself because he sees Stiles as just another villain to battle. Like Stiles is fundamentally _bad_ now, and- They pivot, turning around and stalking back to stand before Derek, arms spread.

"No. You know what? You want to "help"? Then _you_ hit _me_." Derek glares warily.

"And how does that help anything?"

"You want to feed me? Keep me away from others? I feed off conflict, Derek. So go on. Hit me. I'm not Stiles anymore, right? I'm just some evil thing with his face. It'll be like justice. Except you don't know. You'll keep wondering if I'm right. If I _am_ Stiles. If I don't deserve it. And you'll hate that you can't tell if you did the right thing. It'll eat at you and I'll feed off it. So go on. _Hit me_."

"No."

"Hit me."

"Stiles-"

" _Fucking hit me, damnit._ Hit me! Show me what happens if next time I decide to go bigger. Maybe set a bomb in the school. Take out a bridge with a bus on it. Take out the generators and cut the power to the hospital. Hit me, Derek! Or I'm gonna know I can get away with _anything_ just because you can't resist my pretty fa-"

The punch lands solidly on Stiles' cheek, possibly, probably, fracturing the underlying bone, and sends them to the ground. They spit out blood, tonguing the wound where the strike made them bite their cheek, and grin up at Derek, who looks every bit as conflicted as they predicted.

"Felt good, didn't it?" Stiles says. "It felt good to hurt us, because you needed to."

They don't laugh as Derek walks away, back to his car, and drives off without them. They don't laugh because they're not actually a villain, and none of this is funny. They just sit and wait for the wound to heal enough that the resulting headache passes, and then they walk back to the Jeep and drive home as the sun rises.

\---

 

Scott isn't happy. No one is, actually. No one appreciates the humor in setting a cougar loose in The Jungle, in Beacon Hills, or that only one person was injured enough to even need stitches. Scott and Stiles' dad seem determined to keep an even sharper eye on him than before, but no one tries to give them a talk about morality and/or toeing the line. Stiles isn't sure if he resents or appreciates that, since he wouldn't listen, but also no one is talking to him about _anything_.

The bear creature wasn't even mentioned. Stiles only learns of its existence and the havoc it's wreaking when Kira calls Scott to tell him she and Malia have it trapped in the school, they think. And Scott, dear Scott, still keeps forgetting Stiles has super good, if not werewolf awesome, hearing now. He begs off, saying he forgot he made plans with Kira. Like Stiles can't tell he's lying. Stiles always knows when Scott is lying. He doesn't call Scott out on it, though. Instead, they wait for him to leave, then grab their bat to follow.

It's in the cafeteria when Stiles gets there. Kira is out cold and Malia is struggling to stand on a broken leg (they steer clear of her, the bloodlust emanating from her says she may attack anything that comes too close). And Scott… Scott is putting up one hell of a fight, right up to the point where the bear creature pins him halfway up the wall by the throat, and Stiles sees red. Lots and lots of bright, sweet, scarlet red.

The first strike of his bat to its head is enough to draw plenty of blood, but not enough to put it down. It spins, swiping out and catching Stiles across the chest. Scott takes advantage of the distraction to break free and get in a strike of his own. As soon as its focus is off them, Stiles gets in a second blow. And a third. Fourth. Fifth. They keep going until blood is everywhere and the beast stops moving.

Maybe it's a bit excessive. Scott is looking at them almost in horror. He looks mostly whole, though, which is what really matters.

"You okay, dude?" Stiles asks.

"Me? What about- Stiles, are _you?_ " It takes them a second before they remember their wound. It's already healed to barely more than a scratch, though, and they say as much to Scott, who doesn't look relieved in the least. Instead, he takes in the blood pooling on the floor and his jaw goes tight. "There was a better way to do this."

"Maybe," Stiles concedes, though he doesn't appreciate the patronizing, "but forgive me if I wasn't going to stop and think of it when you were being _strangled to death._ "

Scott sighs sadly but otherwise ignores him. "We need to clean this up," he says.

"No. Not until you tell me what the hell that was," Stiles says, voice firm in a way he never could seem to make it _before_. "You think I just did that for kicks? You think I don't _care_ what happens to you? Because if you think that, well, fuck you. You're my _best friend_ , Scott. My brother. Nothing will ever change that, and I'm never going to just stand back and watch you die."

The look in Scott's eyes is softer now, the sigh more weary than anything else. "I know."

"I'm still Stiles."

"You're not, though," Scott says. "You keep saying that, but you're the only one who really believes it. You're not him… but you're not the nogitsune either. I don't- I need time. To adjust. But, I think we can work this out. You're not him, but part of him is in you, and I'm not going to give up on that. Right now, though, I think you should leave. We'll take care of this."

Stiles opens his mouth to argue, but Scott isn't having it. " _Go._ "

He goes, sulks his way through the halls, has a hard time not feeling rejected. When he gets to the Jeep, someone yells his name, and he turns to find Scott hanging half out a window.

"I'll see you Monday at school, yeah?"

Stiles smiles and yells back, "Who else is going to make sure you don't flunk Trig?"

\---

 

Stiles doesn't go home, can't stand the thought of his dad sitting up, waiting for him, thinking the worst because everyone knows he isn't Stiles anymore. And the blood drying all over his clothes wouldn't exactly inspire confidence. So he drives, with no particular destination in mind, until he once again finds himself parked before the old Hale house.

It's dark, still hours from dawn, but that isn't really an issue these days. Stiles can see fine, though it does get a bit harder as he enters the tunnels. He trails his fingers along the walls, partially to help navigate the darkest passages, partially just to _feel_. He lets himself taste the ash and smell the char, and he wonders if Scott is right. If he isn't Stiles anymore, and he's just been trying to convince himself he is. They aren't separate anymore; there is no "they". There's just _him_ , whoever he is.

Exhaustion mixes with the comfort this place now holds for him and takes its toll. He sits down outside a room, collapsed and echoing pain, and drifts.

 

In the dream, he's where he is, walking through burned out halls. It's a good place. A good place for Stiles. It's not a good place for the blue man, who is already there, carding ash through his fingers. He _hurts_. He hurts so much, and Stiles doesn't want that. Not like this. He doesn't want the blue man's tears. Derek's eyes are sharp, when Stiles kneels beside him.

"Here again?" he asks; the first time he's spoken in a dream outside of sex.

"Where else do I have to go?" Stiles responds. Derek doesn't say anything, and Stiles thinks Derek may leave if he speaks again, so he doesn't. But he won't sit here with Derek wallowing in sadness. He clasps Derek's hand and pulls him up, leading him away from the pain, up to the surface.

It isn't a memory, the forest they step into, but not entirely a dream, either. It's every forest Stiles has been in, and every forest he could imagine. He keeps hold of Derek's hand, never wants to let go, and shows him trees as wide as houses that reach up to brush leaves of the brightest green against a sky bluer than blue. And they come to a stop in a clearing of white flowers under the silver light of a full moon and listen to the echoing howls of wolves around them.

Stiles doesn't care much for it, the peace of it, but it's not about him. It's about Derek, the blue man, who's still sad, but not as much. Some of the tension drains from him, but he still seems uncomfortable; until he looks at Stiles, and a smirk tugs at his lips. The howls change, no longer friendly, but charged. Sounds of the hunt rise, and it's not Stiles' doing.

Rustling starts nearby, drawing closer and closer until a fox darts into the clearing, fur red as blood and black as space all at once, with a single wolf on its tail. A wolf with bright, clear blue eyes. They whip past in a second, disappearing into the woods on the other side, and there's a sharp yelp before long, of surprise or pain, Stiles isn't sure. But he turns back to Derek and finds himself looking into the same blue, predatory eyes of the wolf.

Derek has Stiles on the ground in a second, climbing on top of him, pinning him down. Sharp teeth nip at Stiles' lips, hips grinding down against his own. It doesn't go any further than that, though. It's rough, but slow, almost sweet. As the sky brightens and the moon sets and they draw close to waking, Derek buries his head against Stiles neck and breathes deep. He doesn't say anything, but he smiles and kisses Stiles softly and presses something hard and full of edges into his hand.

When Stiles looks, once he's alone, he finds himself holding a familiar key.

\---

 

Stiles lets himself into Derek's apartment, and Derek is already there waiting.

"So they're real," he says. "This whole time, I really have been in your dreams."

"I guess so."

"So what now?" Stiles hesitates, not sure if he can handle another rejection just yet, but Derek figured it out and still kissed him in the dream. Still invited him over, offered him a place to go.

"I think we can do this," Stiles says. "Not we like Stiles and the nogitsune. There is no we like that anymore. Just me, whoever I am. But us. You and me. It- It won't be easy. Or peaceful. I can't do those things now. I'm pretty sure I couldn't even before. And you need to understand that sometimes I'm going to hurt people, and I'm going to enjoy it, I'm _allowed_ to enjoy it. But I won't hurt you."

Derek comes to stand in front of him, grabbing Stiles' hands to still them from the worrying he hadn't even realized he was doing. "I don't like peace," Derek tells him. "It makes me paranoid, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. Chaos, though. I know chaos. I'm comfortable with chaos. And I may not like when you hurt people, but I've seen your memories, through your eyes, and I understand.

"But-" He smiles a smile that promises dark things and it sends a spike of _want_ straight through Stiles, which isn't alleviated any when Derek leans down and whispers in his ear, "What if I want you to hurt me?"

He bites just this side of too hard and lifts Stiles' up to wrap his legs around Derek's waist as they both groan.

They do make it to the bed… eventually.

 

Stiles crawls out of bed around midday to use the bathroom, leaving Derek still asleep in the bed.

He looks in the mirror and his own reflection stares back, bruises mostly gone, but a couple imprints of teeth still red on his pale skin. He smiles.

"Stronger than iron, crueler than death, sweeter than springtime, it lives beyond breath," he says to himself. "What is it?"

It's too late to be sleeping really, but Stiles is tired, and the world can wait. He crawls back into bed and wraps himself in Derek's arms and dreams.

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi [on tumblr](http://wolftraps.tumblr.com)


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